The Hawaii Job: (A Case Lee Novel Book 5)

by Vince Milam

  A surreal Mexican standoff, the sun blazing, surrounding emptiness for miles. It was their move. We were still consumed by the aftermath of the massif battle, so this potential conflict was an irritant. None of us gave a damn one way or the other. If they desired a fight, we’d give them one. If not, they could drive on. We hoped for the latter while preparing to bail, take cover, and begin fighting if needed. The sound of two vehicle engines at idle and nothing else. The man in the truck’s passenger seat, dark-tinted sunglasses staring our way, spoke to his driver. They moved forward at a slow pace and crossed our path, occupants of each vehicle eyeballing the other. They continued along their road. We waited a few minutes and watched their plume trail, ensuring their intent was travel, not engagement. Marcus fired a cigar while we waited.

  “What’s your thought on the drone strike?” Marcus asked. He twisted his head and winced at the pain to address me.

  “Remarkable operational assessment and timing on the Company’s part. Or wipe the chalkboard clean. Take your pick.”

  He grunted as reply. We wouldn’t shovel any deeper—whether the Company was sophisticated enough to assess the battle situation and strike while the four of us were semiprotected, or whether they’d chosen to end it, including us. Either way, end of the discussion. Because it didn’t matter anymore. I’d considered the Company’s options as we drove. They could have delivered a second strike against us as we traveled, but such an act fell outside their engagement parameters; they would have considered it mission creep. Wouldn’t happen. It may have been Marilyn Townsend, or it may have been something as absurd as a need to avoid more paperwork that saved our asses from a second strike. I’d never know. Marcus ground back into gear, and we moved forward.

  An hour and a half later we approached Goz Beïda and its clay airstrip, two miles away. A small rise among scattered refugee camps marked our exit’s final approach, our end point, and our head-for-the-barn beginning. It also marked the point where our little jeep decided to die. Smoke poured from under the hood as we crested the hill. A hill too far for the slapdash vehicle.

  “Shit.”

  Catch’s statement covered it.

  “Let’s bail before this thing catches fire or decides to perform a dying backflip,” Marcus said.

  We did. And stood under the hot sun, the main refugee camp and administrative headquarters visible in the far distance. We grabbed rucksacks and gathered weapons, our movements slow and deliberate and filled with physical pain. Blotches of soaked-through red showed on our fatigues. A dressing change—more wound wash, fresh gauze, fresh tape—would wait. Catch was our prime concern. We’d take turns helping him hop the final stretch, although each forward movement clearly jarred, as evidenced by his low grunt at each shuffled step. We’d progressed less than twenty paces when an old man approached from a nearby camp. A collection of younger men and women trailed him, each dressed with bright-colored robes and each skinny as a rail.

  “You are European?” he asked in Arabic. “United Nations?”

  “American,” I said, halting.

  Murmurs emanated from the small crowd behind him. No doubt we looked a mess, and no doubt the weaponry and wounds indicated recent action in Sudan. But we remained a curiosity, nonthreatening, and little more.

  “You have fought the Janjaweed?” he asked, eyes squinting in the sun. His headwrap was ocher-colored, his robe a stained gray. He leaned on a staff, his walking stick. The crowd stood silent behind him.

  “Yes.”

  He returned a grim nod. I don’t know why I tossed out the next statement. Maybe to provide a glint of hope for him and his people within a hopeless situation. Or a matter-of-fact regional news declaration he’d hear about soon enough. Either way, the effect was profound.

  “We wiped out the Musa Kibir clan.”

  An immediate reaction ensued. Smiles, chatter, and a command from the old clansman to fetch donkeys. I addressed my teammates.

  “We’re about to get a ride the last couple of miles.”

  Returned nods and grim smiles. We were hurtin’ for certain. We drank water and waited as a string of small donkeys were led and prodded from within their encampment. As they approached, the old man instructed one of the younger men to bring forward what was deemed the strongest donkey. The old man approached Catch, smiled and nodded, and extended an arm toward the approaching animal.

  “Shukraan,” Catch said, white teeth flashing within the black bristles. Thank you. He didn’t speak Arabic, but he knew the basics.

  With a grunt and struggle—for both Catch and the donkey—he slid onboard, feet inches from the ground. The crowd laughed; a few applauded. Three more animals were brought forward, and soon enough we were mounted. The old clansman took it upon himself to lead. His staff extended and marked each forward step. Half the crowd followed.

  “I’m prepared for an indecipherable running commentary, Bo,” Marcus said. His Zippo clacked, another cigar fired. His donkey trudged ahead. “And it disturbs me to say it, but I won’t mind. This requires your input.”

  “He doesn’t need any encouragement,” Catch said, adjusting his position. His donkey halted and shot him an over-the-shoulder look. One of the refugees whacked it on the ass, and forward progress continued.

  “Words are extraneous,” Bo said. He’d lifted his face to the sun, eyes shut, a satisfied relaxation across his face as the burnt ends of his red mop lifted and fell with the donkey’s steps.

  “That’s it? Clearly you’re hurting bad. Worries me,” Catch said.

  “Suffice it to say,” Bo continued, “the universe has laid the path, the way is smooth, the moment rife with memories.”

  “That’s better,” Catch said.

  “I’ll buy the memories part,” Marcus said. “A finale for the ages.”

  We rode another half-mile before Bo spoke again. He’d edged his donkey alongside mine. I couldn’t say I was comfortable—my back side wounds bit hard and my head throbbed—but the finish line was within sight. Bo had to be hurting as bad or worse.

  “It rolls and it tumbles, does it not, my brother?”

  Life. I had to smile.

  “Yeah it does, Bo. Yeah it does.”

  An event, a parade, a break in the monotony of refugee camp life. And a helluva relief for four beat-up operators. More so when we discerned a large modern cargo plane with UN markings being unloaded at the edge of the airstrip.

  We dismounted at the administration building and thanked the clan members. Handshakes all around, and “Go with God” and bright smiles abounded. The greeting from the head knocker of an NGO was less enthusiastic. He exited the administration building and stood before us, hands on hips.

  “We do not allow weapons in this area unless they are carried by UN troops.”

  He was ignored as we groaned our way into the building’s shade, dropped our rucksacks on the ground. Water bottles were passed, thirsts sated.

  “I insist you leave,” the administrator added. His English was excellent, with a slight accent.

  “We’re leaving alright,” Marcus said as he approached the administrator. “On that.”

  He pointed toward the emptying four-prop cargo plane—a sight for sore eyes. An Airbus Atlas, capable of getting us to Europe.

  “This aircraft is carrying staff back to Italy. It is used for our regular rotation of personnel.”

  “Sounds good,” Marcus said. He approached the administrator and got nose-to-nose. “We’ll relinquish our weapons once onboard. Not before. And we will be onboard.” Quiet seconds ticked by. “Is there any part of that you do not understand?”

  The administrator glared, turned on his heel, and returned to the safety of the admin building. We hefted our rucksacks and weapons and glommed onto a collection of Europeans sitting and standing in the shade of a cargo area, luggage at their feet. The departing NGO workers. They fell silent as we approached. Catch hopped along with Marcus’s support. Bo and I took slow painful steps. We dropped our kit alongside th
eirs. Held onto our weapons. A middle-aged woman approached, her sunburned brow furrowed.

  “You are injured.”

  Delivered in English with a French accent. A noncommittal statement, one expecting a rational and explanatory reply.

  “We’ve been battling the Janjaweed,” Marcus said.

  “American?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have not been made aware of such activities,” she said.

  I didn’t want Marcus heading down an it’s-a-personal-matter rabbit hole, so I rolled the dice and spoke. The woman was French, and regardless of the challenges when dealing with all things culturally French, I’d found them over the years to be quite pragmatic as often as not.

  “We wiped out Musa Kibir’s clan,” I said.

  She absorbed the message, shot us a Gallic half-grin-half-frown, and turned toward several of her colleagues, speaking French. They stood, and she turned back toward me.

  “I am a physician. The flight departs in one or two hours. We will have a look at you.”

  They did. We stripped inside their small clinic and took turns on the two cushioned tables as they patched, stitched, applied fresh dressing, and shot us in the butt with what we were told were antibiotics and painkillers. Novocain saw ample use as remnant shrapnel was dug from Catch’s upper body and my back side. Bo’s shoulder received special attention as he spoke to the doctor in French. He even got her to laugh.

  This was a godsend, and we each expressed our gratitude, which was met with pursed lips and shrugs. We’d wiped out a major source of trauma for Darfur refugees in Chad. They doctored us as a form of quid pro quo. Pragmatic efforts and performed without fuss or much conversation. We couldn’t have asked for more.

  Our last act, performed onboard the aircraft, was handing over our weapons to several refugee workers. I prayed they would put them to good use. Protect one or two of the camps. Shoot back at the Janjaweed bastards. I’d never know.

  Airborne, I arranged a charter transatlantic flight. Naples, Italy, to Charlotte, North Carolina. The final leg. A Charleston landing was an option, but we’d left our stash of home-turf weapons at the Charlotte private air terminal. I texted Mom and asked her to come home in twenty-four hours. We’d be ensconced at her house when she arrived. Even shot-up, we’d provide a protective force against any residual bounty hunters. And her house would act as a recovery depot for a few days. She texted back, asking about me. I assured her I was well and that Marcus, Catch, and Bo would be joining me to greet her return. She didn’t enquire further.

  I planned for next steps. A checkbox yet unmarked. Elliot Krupp. My teammates hadn’t mentioned this final act, understanding it was a solo endeavor. A personal vendetta. I appreciated their lack of questions. Ugly business, a required killing.

  Source cleaned. Headed home. All hands healthy. Final act’s location?

  That message was for Jules, encrypted, dark web: Musa Kibir’s clan killed. Mission accomplished. The four of us survived. Now, where was Krupp? Last I’d heard, he was in California. Her reply came within minutes—succinct and filled to the brim with acknowledgement of the final act’s necessity.

  Hawaii.

  Chapter 36

  Sleep didn’t come easy during the five-hour Naples flight. Fitful at best due to pain and the French physician taking the opportunity for a final health go-over. She reserved special commentary for me as I’d collected a litany of scars from recent jobs.

  “It would appear you receive such injuries as a habit,” she said, reapplying gauze and tape. “I will make a suggestion.”

  “Please do.”

  “You, especially you, and your friends should change vocations. Such activities are a young man’s business.”

  “No argument from me, Doc. None whatsoever.”

  She exhibited special concern over Bo. Besides the shoulder entry and exit wound, he’d been marked with other bullet grazes and shrapnel wounds. They spoke French, and while the language was indecipherable to me, the conversation’s gist was clear enough. Bo lifted his arm a few inches, winced, and waggled the shoulder joint. Speaking English, he said, “Nothing’s broken, Doc. It went right through.”

  She examined Catch again and explained his knee injury could be a multitude of things.

  “Just wrap it tight, Doc,” Catch said. “I’ve had worse.”

  Before we landed in Naples, she loaded us up with additional medical supplies, which included more antibiotics and painkillers. A four-hour Naples layover and the ten-hour transatlantic flight was spent in sleep and recovery with the help of exhaustion and pain pills. We landed in Charlotte at four a.m. Home turf. Jess Rossi home turf as well. I shoved those thoughts aside. Other business remained unfinished.

  Even though we now wore civvies—jeans and button-ups and light jackets—we looked a mess. The Charlotte private air terminal was manned with one employee who cast a wide-eyed look our way. Four guys, one hopping with another’s assistance, wincing at forward movement with the occasional groan added as emphasis.

  The employee’s subsequent tale for fellow air terminal workers would be enhanced when we struggled our way into the holding room, retrieved our large duffel, and confirmed our weaponry remained locked and loaded. The employee never said a word.

  I rented a large SUV and hit the road. A three-hour drive, and the first Charleston stop was a hospital ER for Bo and Catch. Bo refused—bullet wounds brought police questions. Catch agreed to an ER visit; while he’d caught a fair bit of shrapnel and rock shards and bullet grazes, he could BS past those. No cops required. The admitting personnel asked him about the nature of the injury.

  “My knee.”

  She looked him, and us, up and down and returned to inputting information into the hospital’s data system.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Fell down stairs.”

  She halted her keystrokes and gave us another look-over.

  “They must have been some gnarly stairs, sir.”

  “Not gnarly enough.”

  Soon enough he was placed in a wheelchair and rolled away. The three of us left standing headed for Mom’s place. I’d exchanged text messages with her once it was a decent hour, and she’d replied an expected late-afternoon arrival.

  We arrived at Mom’s house after circling the neighborhood several times. I pulled into the drive alongside the house and drove toward the backyard garage. We left the vehicle armed with rifles and pistols, our weapons on full display, too whupped to mess around. Marcus led the incursion into the house as he had the greatest mobility. It was clean. No danger signs. Word traveled fast among dark web scum buckets.

  “Bo, you hit the hay. Eight-hour shifts,” Marcus said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. Case will join you after he deals with a loose end or two.”

  It was the first time my teammates had alluded to Krupp since we’d left for Malta.

  I figured a seventy-two-hour reprieve. Word would have spread on the killer-for-hire dark web. The bounty was no longer in play. It wouldn’t take long for word to spread among that crowd the news that a ten-million-dollar chip had been removed from the table.

  Krupp remained another story. He’d applied human and transactional layers between himself and Musa Kibir. No doubt. I could expect a lag time before he’d get wind of the news. At a minimum, seventy-two hours. Maybe more. Then, as a MOTU, he’d concoct another plan to whack me. Unless I took care of him first. I accessed another offshore bank account and arranged a charter for the Big Island, day after tomorrow. A matter of weighing recovery time against Krupp’s ticking clock. I still hurt, big time, but the shock and trauma phase was well over, and the healing process had begun.

  Marcus and I grabbed a camping cot and mattress from the garage and moved it into the spare bedroom. Bo was stretched on the bed, zonked. He’d taken the worst hits, and his body shut down for rest. I took the living room couch and dozed in fits and starts while Marcus staked lookout at the back porch,
smoking cigars. We waited to hear from Catch and for my family’s arrival.

  Catch’s appearance via taxi was heralded by his outsized voice from the side of the house as he walked, with a limp, up the driveway. Marcus was already with him, telling him to tone it down. I meandered outside and greeted him.

  “So what’s with the knee?” I asked. “You appear to be moving a heckuva lot better.”

  “Torn meniscus. And other more minor stuff. It’s not an issue.”

  “How’d they treat it?” Marcus asked.

  “For some reason they decided to slap me in outpatient surgery right away. Arthroscopic procedure. Said I was a special case.”

  “Do tell,” Marcus said and shot a smile my way.

  He and I acknowledged, unspoken, the nature of Catch’s special case. He’d roared and bitched and pestered until they hauled the bear onto an operating table for the sole purpose of getting him out the door.

  “Did they enquire about the other wounds?” I asked.

  No doubt the medical professionals would have enquired about his patched-up hide.

  “Not for long. Hey, they gave me some kick-ass drugs. I barely feel the knee now. Any trouble here?”

  “All quiet on the home front,” I said. “There’s a cot in the bedroom waiting for you.”

  Catch claimed he might rest for a minute or two, but fifteen minutes later he was sawing logs near Bo.

  Late in the afternoon, Mom, CC, and Peter arrived. And Tinker Juarez. Marcus and I met them at the back drive. Tears welled at the sight of Peter’s Ford, my heart’s treasures inside the vehicle. I was flooded with sorrow and pain at putting them through this and unbounded joy at their safe arrival home. I worked hard and kept the tears under control. Most of them. The emotional dam breached—unexpected and ill-prepared for—and it wasn’t what I’d intended as a greeting.